


Moonlust

by Caixx



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Dystopia, Future Fic, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Male Slash, Original Fiction, Recreational Drug Use, Smut, Werewolf Hunters, Werewolf Sex, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-23 19:10:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19707658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caixx/pseuds/Caixx
Summary: Eli is a werewolf hunter. Then he meets Michael.





	1. Moonlust

__

_June_

It's hot as hell and the air has this nasty sweaty feel to it. The ceiling fan is on, but even the wind feels thick and sluggish. Michael is sleeping on the couch, belly down, spread-eagled, long arms dangling off the side and onto the linoleum. He's wearing a pair of thin cotton shorts. The noontime sun goes right through it, and it looks like he's got nothing on at all, just miles and miles of smooth golden skin. 

There's a piece of newspaper draped over Michael's dark shaggy curls. Eli put it there when Michael complained that it felt like his hair was on fire.

"Just close the fucking blinds," Michael had said earlier, grumpy as hell.

"No." Eli said. "It's hot."

"So let's make you feel better by giving me a heatstroke?"

Eli smiles. "The draft will make it better."

"What draft?" Michael raises his head. His grey eyes are bright like new steel. "The air in this city hasn't moved in fucking weeks."

But Michael manages to fall asleep anyways.

Eli tries not to stare, but Michael has two perfect dimples in the muscles of his lower back, right above the swell of his buttocks. 

He's filled out since Eli first met him, but he has yet to lose the gauntness that haunted his features when Eli rescued him from the pack of werewolves that almost ripped him up into pieces.

__

_March._

Vic showed up early in the morning. Eli opened the door, scratching his stomach and wearing his baby blue pajamas, the ones with the little yellow ducks all over them.

"Cute," Vic says, stooping to get in the door. He's a big guy, head to the ceiling, shoulders to the walls kind of big. They trained together when they enlisted. They're the same age, tied for the best marksmen in their class, and logged the same amount of hours on the job, but Vic's got a couple more scars and a score more kills to show for it. He has a personal grudge up uphold. His sister was raped by a wolf, and was bitten in the process. They never caught the guy. They didn't even know he was a wolf till the full moon came around, when she started twitching in her hospital bed. She didn't survive her first transformation. Many don't. Vic has probably avenged her a hundred times over.

No one visits Eli. Eli stares up at the man, forgetting to move and Vic elbows him out of the way to get into the kitchen.

"What a shithole." Vic looks around the small apartment with a disgusted look on his face.

Eli has never had a taste for luxury. He chose this apartment because it only had two windows, one of which was so small it didn't even need a curtain. The kitchen is old, and clearly unused. There's a gaping hole in the counter next to the sink where the stove is supposed to go. A small round table sits in the middle of the room with a lone bar stool tucked under it. A rusty red couch is pushed against the far wall, and the little end table next to it holds what is perhaps the smallest and oldest television in the entire metropolis. An old creaky door opens up to Eli's bedroom, and the other leads to a diminutive bathroom.

Vic slouches over to the kitchen counter, looking for food. "Head office needs us up by the train tracks," he says as he helps himself to a piece of toast. "Some housewife saw a couple wolves out her kitchen window last night. Didn't call it in till this morning. Idiot."

Eli pulls the bar stool out from under his round table. "How many?"

"Six."

Eli stares at the wood grains of the tabletop, thinking. "Hm." That's a pretty big pack to be this close to the city.

"Head Office is freaking out." Vic settles himself onto the couch. "They want both of us down there."

"Now?" Eli looks at the clock on the kitchen counter.

"After you change your pants," Vic snickers. Eli decides to ignore him. "How's your arm, by the way?"

Eli raises his hand, showing Vic the red jagged scars running up his arm, into the sleeve of his shirt. Eli just got the cast off. "Fine." 

Vic punches him on the shoulder, hard. "Good."

Eli doesn't give him the satisfaction of wincing.

It happened when he was down east on a routine round. Someone found prints – looked like a gray wolf's, but almost twice as big and the hind paw had five front facing toes. The Trackers dispatched there sent back a positive ID.

One set of prints don't mean much. Werewolves never travel alone. A lone wolf is a dead wolf. Eli caught a lone wolf once. She was newly infected, scared as hell, and hadn't even learned how to run properly yet. Eli downed her with two shots. The slugs shattered her skull.

Eli expected something similar this time, and spent a week trampling through the woodlands and splashing through the muddy creeks. But he didn't find any more tracks.

That night, he left the trees behind in favor of the town. It was a full moon, and Eli didn't want to risk it.

He had stopped by a pub, and ordered a drink. His nerves were all jumbles up from being on unfamiliar territory and every time he turned around the radar in his head goes off, making him nervous. He had thought he was overworked when he got the _feeling_.

It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and sent goosebumps up and down his arms.

Then Eli saw the man, wide, bulky, dressed like a hick, sitting in the corner, glaring at him and twitching. Eli recognized the twitching, the little involuntary jitters that move slowly down the body. It starts at the base of the neck and once it gets to the little toe, things get nasty.

On the other days, it takes energy and concentration for a werewolf to transform. The full moon flips the table on them. On those nights it takes energy and concentration for them to _not_ transform. And they can't always help themselves.

Usually, the twitching is good news for Eli, since it's against the law to shoot a werewolf if it's not in its wolf form. All Eli has to do is sit back, with two fingers resting on this hip piece, and wait for the fur to sprout and the growling to start. But the problem was, this time they were in a crowded pub. If the wolf got to anyone before Eli could put it down then there might be some kills that keep him up at night. Because it's also against the law to let a bitten one live. Once infected, they're no longer human. If Eli witnessed a bite then Eli would have to put a bullet through somebody's head.

He had to shoot a handful of bitten ones before. Some of them were still clutching their bite wounds, staring cross-eyed down the barrel. Don't shoot me, please don't shoot me. Every time Eli wished he could close his eyes when he pulled the trigger, but he couldn't afford to miss. Shooting a person in the face is different than shooting a werewolf in wolf form. You can rationalize and tell yourself the wolf is a monster, a killer, and it's got no soul. But you can't rationalize away the look a twelve year old girl gives you right before you put a bullet between her eyes. Worse yet, you can never forget the look her mother gives you as the girl's body crumples to the ground.

Eli didn't want any more blood on his hands, so he broke the cardinal rule. He approached the wolf.

He came out of the ensuing tussle with a couple of nasty gashes running down the left side of his body and a crushed forearm, but nobody was bitten, and he was damn glad.

Of course, he got suspended for a month for breaking the rule. The Head Office plays by the book.

It doesn't help that his district Dispatcher hates his guts. She must. Why else would she send him on a recon mission with Vic, of all people, on his first day back from suspension?

When he woke up this morning, Eli wanted to savour this last little of freedom before heading downtown to report for duty. He should know better by now. 

He pulls on a pair of old jeans and a tight t-shirt. The standard issue vest is black, hard, and heavy. The Hunters' logo is emblazoned across the back, and it's got some sort of fancy engineered fabric that can hold its own against the fangs of the biggest wolf the entire North Country has to offer. It's been collecting dust for the last few months.

Vic hands Eli a car key when he re-enters the kitchen. It has the tag from Quickie Rentals. "What is this?" Eli stares down at it.

"What the fuck do you think it is?"

Eli looks up at Vic. "Why can't we take my truck?"

"Because we're incognito, asshat. Pack is too close for comfort. They don't wanna alarm the locals." Vic shoulders his bag, swinging it dangerously close to Eli's head. Eli's truck is on loan from the Head Office. The massive black Hunter logo is kind of hard to miss.

When they come out into the alley, Vic pulls his jacket hood up over his head in one smooth motion. They pick their way over the legs of the homeless and the junkies, all sprawled out over the icy pavement. Vic leads the way to the rental truck with a quick furtive look up and down the street.

Eli doesn't bother to hide. He has perhaps the least memorable face in the world. His hair and eyes are the same nondescript brown. Other than his face being thin and pale, he has no other distinctive feature. He's not big like Vic, has no bulging muscles, and feels no need to flaunt. He doesn't have the Hunter's air or their arrogance. Nothing about him would stand out in a crowd.

It's a weekday and the morning rush turns the traffic into a crawl. Vic keeps his palm on the horn and takes up two lanes, just because he can. Eli stacks his duffle in the space between them, like a barricade.

They sit over the line at a light, next to a SUV. Eli glances over. The driver is a young man with his nose in his phone. He's clean-shaven, in suit and tie, with short cropped white hair and dark eyes. Eli freezes. The back of his neck turns cold.

_White hair, dark eyes, ragged breath. Eli hits his elbow on the toilet seat._

_"Yesss..." Fingers rake through his hair, and a hand grips his shoulder._

_He doesn't like the taste of lube or the latex but the heat, the need, and the moans he induces make him want more, and more._

_"Like that. Just like that._ _"_

Light flashes green. Vic takes his foot off the brake. Dark eyes flicker over.

"Turn!" Eli wrestles the steering wheel from Vic and they swerve into oncoming traffic. 

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Vic demands, batting him away. "It's the next street down."

"Right. Sorry. Forgot." Eli tucks his hands under his thighs to stop them from shaking so much. He breathes deep out of his nose, trying to get his heart rate back to normal.

_The bass makes the stall doors shake. "H_ _ey, what's your name?"_

_"No." Eli's palms are sticky when he pushes against the wall, to prop himself up_ _._

_"I said what's your name?" A thumb smears over his lips. The condom is dropped into the toilet. "Listen to me. Hey, listen."_

"Are you listening to me?"

Eli shakes himself. "What?" He really can't look Vic in the eyes right now.

"I said they're up ahead. See them?"

Eli looks where Vic is pointing. A couple of Trackers, decked out in the trademark black, are waving at them, flagging them down.

Vic pulls up and rolls down his window. "Got anything for us?"

"Hey, Vic. How ya doin'?" One of the Trackers comes up and props his elbow on the window. He's blond, short, and skinny. Scott. Eli's worked with him once. He's a rookie – just came out of the licensing exam last year with a record-breaking score. 

"Just give us the goddamn location." Vic is not in the mood for small talk.

Scott shrugs. "There aren't no locations."

Vic clenches the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turn white. "Can I talk to someone who isn't an asshat?" He yells at the other Trackers.

One of them walks up and nudges Scott out of the way. "You guys better get a move on. They're about to cross the Rail, half a mile out."

Eli frowns at the Tracker from around Vic's massive shoulder.

"What do you mean?" Vic demands. "They're coming this way?"

The Tracker nods. "We were looking for prints when we saw them. There's five or six of them, running this way. None of us got anything to shoot them with so we jumped back in the van and got the fuck outta there."

Vic swears loudly. "How many were there exactly? Five or six?"

Scott scowls. "Well, we were too busy running for our fucking lives to stop and count them, weren't we?"

Vic snorts. "Goddamn pussies." He steps on the gas and leaves the Trackers behind.

Eli is already pulling out his gear, holding his M60 between his knees as he checks the cartridge hurriedly.

"Why would they be heading towards the city?" Vic wonders aloud.

Eli shrugs and snaps the scope onto his sniper rifle.

Vic floors it. "Well, I guess we'll find out." He pauses. "Maybe they're suicidal."

Eli doesn't argue. He sticks the ax down the back of his jeans and then tucks his Magnum next to it after a second of hesitation. Eli has only shot wolves on the run before. You don't call it Hunting if they're the ones chasing you down. Werewolves attack Hunters when they're cornered. Usually when they see Hunters coming, they bolt the other way. Never have they headed into a populated area before, especially not a city, and especially not in a pack.

Vic parks next to the train tracks. Eli climbs into the bed of the truck and sets up his gear.

The tracks demarcate the city's borders. The trains are the main system of transport between the major cities. Before it was built, travelers were forced to spend nights in the woodlands with a pistol in their sleeping bag and ears perked for a howl or a snarl. During those days, there were people getting attacked left and right, and Hunters were generally unwilling to go out there and put their neck between the wolves and their prey.

Vic is hovering next to the truck. He has two AKs, one strapped onto each shoulder. They clank against each other as he pats down his pants pockets. "Forgot my pills. You got any?"

Every Hunter has got a drug of choice. Many of them have a little white bottle or two clanking on have person. Vic says his are just caffeine pills, over the counter, keeps him alert. Sure, whatever. Eli isn't judging anybody. He needs to down half a bottle of moonshine before he can sleep through the night. He's willing to suffer the headaches and nausea in the morning if it means he won't wake up in the middle of the night screaming. Their job isn't one that leaves them with good feelings and sweet dreams.

"No." Eli replies.

Vic looks up at him irritably. "Can you string more than two words together?"

"No."

"I should have brought my other bag," Vic mutters. "Got an extra bottle in there." It's pointless talk, just making noise to keep the silence at bay.

Eli drums his thumb on the side of the truck, surveying their setup. The train tracks run across the bottom of Eli's scope. There's about a hundred feet from where their truck is to the hills beyond the tracks. And behind the hills there's nothing but trees. They're small trees, city trees, nothing like the giants that grow in the woodlands. The suburbs are spread out past the little clump of green. Then it's the farms. And where the farms end, the woodlands begin.

Head Office always has a small contingent of Hunters and Trackers meandering in and out of the rural areas. They're mostly rookies, strutting around in their newly acquired Hunter's vest, and not doing much else. It's how Head Office marks off their territory. Usually, that's all it takes to keep the werewolves away.

"Damn cold," Vic mutters.

Eli doesn't reply. He likes winter. They're too close to the coast for snow, but the ground is frozen solid, just lumps of cold hard dirt, and at night time stakeouts there's extra precaution taken to make sure they aren't given away by their breaths, spiraling upwards in white plumes.

Come to think of it, Eli should have brought the mask to cover his mouth. It's early enough that the sky is still dark. He can see Vic's breath. But he doesn't worry too much. The hills stay silent and unmoving until the sunlight creeps up over the city skyline.

"You checking both ways?" Vic asks.

Eli is just about to answer when he sees it–when he sees _him._

There's a boy running up the hill. His dark hair is wild and tangled. He's dressed for a day at the beach. No jacket, no scarf, nothing. His dirt red t-shirt is tattered and ripped. Half of it is missing, revealing jutting ribs and a stretch of skin that seems to glow in the dawn light. His pants are loose and falling down. And he isn't wearing any shoes. Even at this distance Eli can see the boy's eyes peeking out from behind the dark mess of hair, with a wild look in them. He couldn't be more than eighteen, maybe nineteen.

For an absurd moment, Eli feels like he's seen a scene like this from an ad, from one of those Abercrombie catalogs he likes to hoard, maybe, except this guy is a little too skinny to be one of those models.

Vic hoists his gun against his shoulder and takes aim.

"Don't!" Eli kicks the side of the truck to get his attention. "What, is he bit?"

"I'm not aiming at the kid," Vic growls.

Eli positions himself behind his rifle and peers through the scope. The boy sprints towards them, stumbling twice. Behind him furry heads, waving tongues, and pointed ears bob into sight. Wolves.

The first wolf bounds atop the hill, baring its fangs. It's big, twice as big as gray wolves. It's got sleek, thick fur and a dark brown coloring. Its shoulders are wide, rippling with muscle. Eli focuses on its hind legs. The paws are wider and flatter than a grey wolf's. On each paw, there are five front-facing toes.

The boy stumbles again and falls. The brown wolf slows down, waiting for its companions. Eli counts them, and apparently Vic was doing the same.

"There's only five. That fucking housewife swore she saw six," Vic says. "Can't even fucking count properly."

"Trackers said five."

"No, they said five _or_ six. Dumbasses can't count either."

Eli and Vic watch as the wolves catch up to their fallen prey, but it doesn't seem like they intend to attack. They let the boy push himself back up and stagger away, before they give chase again.

"They're screwing with him," Vic mumbles. "Assholes."

Then one of the wolves lets out a thunderous snarl. The other wolves yip in reply. Eli flexes his trigger finger. That's the signal, it's begun. They've tired him out, and now they're going in for the bite.

Eli grits his teeth. He can probably take down the first wolf from where he is, but he won't be able to get a proof of kill. After werewolves die, it takes a couple minutes for the transformation to reverse. To prove they were a werewolf, standard procedure for Hunter is to chop off a part of the wolf's body–normally one of the paws–before it transforms back. Once detached, the paw won't ever turn back into a hand, and it's taken as evidence. This is why werewolves can only be killed in wolf form. Every werewolf brought into the morgue is a human corpse, minus an appendage.

From this distance, there is no way Eli can get to the body in time to get the paw. He has to wait. But the boy is limping, staggering. He might be bitten long before anything gets close enough for Eli to make the shot.

The boy trips and tumbles down the side of the hill. The first wolf leaps, snarling. Eli pulls the trigger, aiming for the shoulder. The bullet knocks the wolf on its back. It whimpers, and then promptly gets back up. The other wolves give up the chase, yelping.

The boy rolls to the bottom of the hill and lays there. Run, Eli urges silently, Run for it. Run. The man doesn't move. "What's he doing?"

Vic grunts. "Probably in shock. You wanna go get him or should I?"

Eli doesn't answer. Rule number one: never approach a wolf. Not to mention five of them. Eli learned his lesson from his last encounter, and he has the scars to remind him. Vic must be mocking him. "That's not funny."

"I wasn't making a joke," Vic says lightly.

Eli wonders if he misheard. "We can't go out there."

"And we can't shoot them from here either," Vic snaps back. "What are we gonna do? Just sit here and stare them down?"

Eli puts his eye to the scope and scans the hill. The wolves are agitated, gnashing their teeth and yipping. Their prey is so close they can almost taste him, but they know the Hunters are waiting, waiting for them to make a move.

"Get up!" Vic has cupped his hands to his mouth, squinting at the boy at the bottom of the hill. "Get up and move! Move, dumbass! _Move_!"

The wolves perk their ears, standing at attention. The boy seems to have snapped out of it. He tries to stand up, but falls on his face again. He begins to crawl on his hands and knees, body low to the ground. He's moving painfully slow.

One of the wolves yelps. It sounds like a rallying cry. The rest of them follows suit. The boy begins to tremble and shake at the sound. You can't blame him. Even at this safe distance, a shiver of fear is spiking up Eli's spine.

"They're gonna move." Vic's lips are pressed into a thin grim line. "They're gonna risk it."

Eli lifts his head and squints at the crawling boy over his sniper rifle. From here, Eli can see the his eyes, wide and fearful, his jaws clenched, and his bony shoulder blades shifting under golden skin as he moves. The wolves duck their heads and slink down the hill, closing the gap between them and the boy in quick strides.

"Are you gonna shoot the kid or should I?" Vic asks with a sneer. "You know, when they bite him?"

Eli climbs over the roof of the car, sliding into the driver's seat. "Get in."

Vic doesn't need to be told twice. Eli hardly waits for the engine to stop sputtering before he steps on the gas. Vic fires a couple rounds into the air, whooping, distracting the wolves. The truck screeches to a halt three feet away from the boy. The wolves have retreated back up the hill, but not as much as Eli hoped they would.

Vic jumps off the truck and lands with a thud on the dirt. "They're set on this one," he muses.

Eli straps on his M60 and makes a run for the man. The wolves start forward. Vic fires two warning shots. Eli grabs the boy's shirt collar and drags him backwards. The wolves circle each other, indecisive. Then one of them growls, darts away from the pack, and makes a jumping leap towards Eli.

Eli waits until the wolf is right above him before dropping to the ground and pulling the trigger.

 _Rat-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat_.

The wolf flies over his head. When it hits the side of the truck it's already dead. _Crack_ – it's the unmistakable sound of an ax slicing through bone. "I got it," Vic says. He barely finishes his sentence before the rest of the wolves start forward again, yowling.

Vic runs up, crouching next to Eli. They push the man behind them and face the oncoming wolves.

The werewolves are full out sprinting now. Eli has never seen anything like this, and a quick sideways glance at Vic tells him it's a first for him too. "They're not running away." Vic sounds astounded.

Eli lets the M60 do the talking for him. He downs a second wolf just as it pounces. He pulls out his axe in a hurry, and manages to chop off a pointed ear. That'll have to do for now.

Another wolf jumps.

Vic doesn't bother to aim properly. He doesn't need to. Half a second and ten rounds later, the wolf's neck has been torn into pieces. It's splayed out on the ground, knocked out of the air in mid leap. The patches of fur around its front legs begin to lighten until skin emerges. The head, barely attached to the body, is a wolf's head, but the torso is now furless. It's a man's torso. Vic pulls out his ax and hacks off the wolf's tail as it begins to shorten.

The last wolf darts back up the hill, hissing like a cat.

One down, Eli counts, two, three down, and four is in retreat. Eli's heart suddenly jumps to his throat. Where's number five? "There's one more." His voice comes out as a rasp.

"Aww, f–" Vic is cut off by an ear splitting snarl. Eli stumbles back, landing on his ass. It's the wolf he shot in the shoulder earlier. It went around the other side of the truck and climbed on top, waiting for his chance to strike. It's on top of Vic now, lean muscles rippling under silver fur. Vic dropped his gun. There is blood everywhere, and a flash of fangs. Eli has a finger on the trigger, but Vic is thrashing too much. Eli blinks hard. He's gonna have to take a shot, even if he might shoot Vic.

Eli throws his M60 to the ground. He pulls out his Magnum with his other hand and aims. _Bang. Bang. Bang_. One is too high, one hit the wolf in the chest, and the last one knocks it backwards. The wolf on the hill yowls. The injured wolf limps up and runs for the hill, tail between its legs. Eli fires two more shots after it, but his hand is shaking too much to really aim.

On the ground, Vic moans. He's bleeding from the neck, and there's a chunk of flesh missing from his right arm, clawed out.

Eli takes a deep breath and points his Magnum at Vic, hands steady and eyes cool. "Did it bite you?"

Vic doesn't answer. He groans and sits up, prodding his bloody neck with his fingers and swearing. Eli takes a step forward. "Vic." His heart is pounding in his ear. He can't hear anything. "Vic." He says again. Vic tries to stand up. Eli slams the sole of his boot into his side. Vic roars in pain.

"DID IT FUCKING BITE YOU?" Eli yells.

"Looking for a chance to pop me, asshole?" Vic's voice is surprisingly composed. He seems only mildly annoyed. "No, it didn't fucking bite me. Aim that thing somewhere else."

"I'm taking you to the hospital." Eli says it more to threaten Vic than reassure him.

"It's not me you should worry about." Vic juts his chin at the boy on the ground, and gives Eli a pointed look.

The boy looks older up close. His youthful curls are at odds with the gravity in his eyes. He's hugging his knees to his chest, his dilated pupils are focused on the gun in Eli's hand. "Don't kill me." His voice is deep and reminds Eli of crumbling pieces of dark chocolate.

Vic manages to get himself in a standing position. "Ask him if they bit him."

The man's eyes dart to Vic. They're so translucent and reflect so much light, they look like little pieces of sky. "Nobody bit me," he snaps.

"Check him." Vic tells Eli. "Strip him and check him."

The boy's whole body shakes as if seizing, then he pushes himself to his feet, stumbling, running away. Eli doesn't even have time to drop his gun before tackling him.

Eli pushes the boy head-first into the ground, trying to hold him down. He's stronger than he looks, a lot stronger. But Eli's a Hunter. He's got technique on his side.

Pairs of booted feet thump across the dirt, followed by yells of surprise. The Trackers are here. "It's about time," Vic growls. "What took you assfuckers so long?"

"Holy shit." Scott's voice. "Who's that?"

"Help Eli. Hold that dumbass down."

Scott and another Tracker launch themselves at the boy. Somebody knees Eli in the jaw, but they manage to stop the man from struggling.

"Strip him." Vic is looming over them. Someone has given him a gauze pad to hold over his neck wound.

Scott makes quick work of the boy's clothes. Ripping off the tattered shirt and pulling his pants down to his ankles, underwear and all. Eli turns away in a hurry.

"No bites," Scott concludes.

The boy lifts his head off the ground. His bottom lip is bloody and there's a new bruise on his forehead. "Fucking told you," he snarls.

"Shut it," Vic growls. He nods at Scott. "Throw him in the truck. We'll take him to the hospital anyway."

"Can't take him to the hospital." Scott holds up the boy's clothes. "No ID."

Vic frowns. "Nothing?"

Scott shakes his head. Vic snatches the dirty pants out of Scott's hands, turning out the pockets. He sees something on the inside of the waistband and holds it up to the light.

"What is it?" Scott asks, craning his neck, curious as hell.

Vic shoves him away and throws the pants at Eli. Someone had carefully stitched three perfect letters in the waistband– M.I.K.

"What does M stand for?" Vic asks the man, who is struggling against the Trackers holding him. "Matthew? Martin? ...Mario?"

"Michael," the boy says, affronted.

Vic rolls his eyes. "Well, excuse the fuck outta me, _Michael_." He crouches down to look the man in the eye. "You're welcome, by the way, for me saving your life and all."

"You didn't do shit." Michael sneers right back. Vic half raises his left hand, like he was going to hit the boy, but thought better of it. Once Vic has moved away, Scott gets right up in Michael's face. He pushes back his hair and wipes his face down with the antibacterial stuff from the Tracker van's first aid kit.

"Well lookey that," Scott grins at Michael.

"What?" Eli asks quietly, turning his back to the load of them.

Scott laughs. "Think I figured out why those wolves wanted this one so bad. Y'know what they say Mickey boy?"

"It's Michael," comes the peeved reply.

"Well I'll tell ya, Mickey." Scott's doing it on purpose, to be annoying. "They chase ya 'cos they either wanna fuck ya or kill ya." Scott grabs Eli's shoulder and turns him around. "Lookit that face. This one's definitely for fucking. Bet one of them wolves gotta pretty little sister for ya, waitin' somewhere."

Michael grins humorlessly, and doesn't say anything.

He _is_ good-looking. Really good-looking. 

He catches Eli staring. "What?"

Eli feels his face reddening.

"Let's go!" Vic calls from inside the truck. "Move your ass before those fuckers decide to come back."

_June_

The couch is empty. Eli rubs his eyes and yawns. He must have fallen asleep. A pair of hands lifts his chin and tilts his head back. Eli stiffens. Michael is standing above him, smiling. Michael sticks his tongue out. There's a little piece of square wafer perched on the tip. Eli opens his mouth. Michael's hot breath is on him in a second, breathing deep into his body. Eli groans. The wafer cracks and melts, leaving a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He takes Michael's lower lip between his teeth, bites it gently.

Eli's head spins. The chair falls backwards. Eli is staring up, up, and up. The light streaming through the open window is incredibly bright and vivid. There are so many colors there that Eli didn't even know existed.

He's floating down a river, riding on a cloud. He can hear everything, see everything, smell everything. The whole earth is at his fingertips, and all the energy in the world is coursing through him, flowing down his body, setting him on fire, and it feels like heaven.

Michael is wavering in and out of his line of sight. Eli makes a grab for him, fingers snatching at the air. Something is humming in Eli's ear. It's a brilliant symphony, it's rich and sensual, and it makes him feel like all of his clothes will just melt off his body.

Then Michael is beside him, sitting down, dragging a hand down the front of Eli's t-shirt. His palm ends up resting on the front of Eli's jeans. Eli closes his eyes as his thoughts take flight. Michael's fingers linger at the zipper.

Eli's eyelids flutter open, catching Michael's grey eyes with his. There is a ghost of a smile on Michael's lips.


	2. Moonshine

_March._

Mia came to meet them in the hospital foyer. Two orderlies strap Michael, who is still busily struggling, onto a stretcher, and Vic is ushered into Emergency.

She walks up to Eli, and looks him up and down.

A nurse ogles as he passes. The blood all over Eli's jacket probably isn't a big deal to someone who works at a hospital. He was probably looking at Mia's all-black ensemble and the Dispatcher badge pinned onto her left sleeve. Or maybe it's her hair. She's got beet red hair, falling down in waves down to the small of her back.

Mia looks unimpressed. That's her normal look, when it comes to Eli. "Office wants to know the numbers."

Eli takes a moment to get his thoughts in order while Mia taps her phone impatiently. "Three dead, and two ran. The bodies are in Scott's van."

"Oh." Mia looks considerably more interested at the mention of Scott. "And the guy with you?" Mia points in the general direction where Michael was wheeled off to. "Any ID?"

Eli shrugs. "No."

Mia makes a face and jots a few notes down on her phone. "Okay. Talk to him. Find out anything you can. I want an incident report. I want details." She glances up at Eli. "Also, I need you and Vic uptown for debriefing as soon as he's done here." She looks down at her notes and scrunches up her nose. "Did you say three dead and two ran?"

Eli nods. Mia waits for Eli to elaborate but he doesn't know what he's supposed to say.

"There were six wolves," Mia says finally.

"No. Just five."

Mia narrows her eyes at him, like she's trying to figure if he's screwing with her. Then she's bent over her phone again. "Hunters," she mutters under her breath.

Eli decides not to take offense to that. He sticks his hands in his pockets and wonder if he's allowed to leave yet. He really wants to go home, take a bath, and then, a nap.

"What's that guy's name?" Mia points again. "The one with the–?"

"Michael." Eli says. 

Mia's eyebrow arches slightly. "Oookay. Find out where they put him."

Eli hesitates for a heartbeat. "Now?"

"Yes, now" Mia says slowly, condescendingly. "You need to go talk to him before the hospital finds out he's got no insurance and kicks his naked ass to the curb." She turns away. "Call us when Vic is discharged," she throws over her shoulder.

Eli glares after her for a minute, and then slouches off to locate the reception desk. A harried nurse directs him to the temporary holding room. It's a sea of stretchers, separated by green plastic curtains that don't close properly. He finds Vic sulking in the third aisle, with a drip taped to the back of his left hand. His right arm is bleeding onto the sheets.

Vic nods at Eli in acknowledgement. "What did Mia say?"

Eli shuffles out of the way as an orderly rushes past him. "Nothing. Just debrief stuff."

"They'll want us to chase down the runners," Vic guesses. Eli nods. He's assumed the same. Vic grins. "I wouldn't mind if Mia comes along, eh?" He waggles his eyebrows at Eli, who makes a non-committal grunt.

"Hey," Vic lowers his voice. "See what those assholes are doing?" he growls, glaring over Eli's shoulder.

Eli turns to look. Two teenage boys are sitting on the stretcher across the narrow aisle. They're pressed close together, hand in hand and lips on lips. Except they weren't exactly kissing. Looked like they were just licking at each other. Eli looks away quickly. "So?" He turns back around.

Vic snorts. "See what they're putting in their mouths?"

Eli shakes his head.

"Moondust," Vic says in a stage whisper, widening his eyes.

Eli glances over at the lovebirds again. One of them breaks off the kiss and pulls something out of his pocket. It looks like a little piece of wafer, white and square. The kid puts it in his mouth, and the other one leans in, pressing their tongues together.

"Oh." Eli has seen people eating those before. Hobos eat them two at a time, like candy, crunching them with their molars and washing it down with quick swigs from dirty bottles in paper bags. There are kids who ride the train all day long, sitting in the corners of the cars with glazed eyes and easy smiles, clutching something small in between their sweaty fingers. There are pretty girls outside the downtown clubs who do nothing but laugh and laugh and laugh, expression vacant and a telltale smidgen of white on their hot pink lips. It's the latest thing. In this city, Hunter's aren't the only ones with bad dreams. "Didn't know it's called that."

A nurse comes by and pulls back the curtains around Vic's bed. She motions to the bed next to them. "Did you guys bring this one in?"

It's Michael, clad in a faded pink hospital gown and scowling–probably because he's strapped down with belts around his wrists and ankles. Eli tries not to look at him too much.

"Yeah," Vic answers.

The nurse pulls out a thin, crumpled folder. "Well, do either of you have his ID or insurance information?"

Eli and Vic look at each other. "No," they reply in unison.

The nurse looks irritated. "Well then we can't keep him here."

Eli raises his hand. "Five minutes." He looks from Vic to the nurse. "We need to talk to him first."

"Nope." The nurse moves to pull Michael's bed into the aisle. "We can't hold anyone without a government issued ID. Get out of the way, sir. I said no."

"Actually," Vic says quickly, "we do have his ID." He looks at Eli.

Eli stares back at Vic. What?

Vic reaches into Eli's breast pocket and pulls out his Hunter badge. "Here." He tosses it to the nurse. "He's one of ours."

The nurse glances at Michael and holds up the badge. "This is yours?"

Vic answers for him. "Yeah, it is."

Eli opens his mouth to protest but Vic elbows him. The nurse turns the badge over and peers and Michael. "What's your name, Hunter?"

Michael looks to Vic. Vic forces a grin. "It's Eli."

The nurse frowns, unconvinced. "Eli...what?"

"Elliot." Vic glances sideways at Eli, who shakes his head. "Elias? Uh..."

"Elijah," Eli says.

Vic snorts. "Of course. Preacher's son. I forgot."

Michael's smoky grey eyes are laughing at Eli. 

The nurse rolls her eyes and drops the badge onto Michael's stomach. "Five minutes, then I'm taking him to Recovery. He's dehydrated and malnourished. We'll be holding him for a couple weeks."

"What do we need to talk to him for?" Vic asks Eli, when the nurse is out of sight.

Eli shrugs. "I don't know," he confesses. He thinks for a second then adds, "Details."

Vic sneers at Michael. "Alright, kid, what are you? Homeless? Junkie? Crazy?"

Michael doesn't look amused. "Fuck you."

"Make it up," Vic tells Eli. No Hunter likes the admin side of the job. Of all the incident reports in the depository, Eli is willing to bet that at least a third of them are made up. "He's using your name," Vic says, "he can use your story too. Ran away from home when he was sixteen, followed the train tracks to the city, sleeping in the streets... Hey, write this shit down." 

"You write it down," Eli says. 

Vic continues. "Where'd you come across the wolves, kid?"

"Fuck you," Michael snarls.

"Why were they chasing you?" Vic asks.

"For his face." Eli hears himself and then immediately blanches. "I mean...Scott said, his, uh," Eli backpedals. "Scott said they're probably after his..." Eli isn't quite sure how to finish his sentence. He ends up vaguely gesturing his face area.

"Oh right," Vic sniggers. "They wanted to stud him."

Michael turns his face away from them, disgusted.

"That's enough," Eli says firmly and steps into the aisle. "Head Office when you're...done," he tells Vic coldly. It'll be hours before Vic is discharged. He's got time to kill. He can write the report however he wants. Eli doesn't want to be a part of it.

"Can you get the nurse for me?" Vic asks. "Half my blood's leaking out of my arm."

"Get her yourself," Eli snaps.

As he walks away he hears Vic asking Michael. "What's his fucking problem?"

It's only after Eli has boarded a bus heading back home when he remembers that his badge is still with Michael. He'd rather ask Mia for a new one than go back there. Eli doesn't stop by the back of the 7-Eleven up the street for his ritual post-assignment moonshine.

He kicks off his boots the second he's through the door, and leaves a trail of clothes to the bathroom. Eli squeezes some conditioner into his palm and reaches down between his legs.

He was already hard when he was jogging up the stairs minute ago. To be honest, he was more aroused by the prospect of jerking off than by the lingering images of smooth golden skin and dark wild curls. But when he closes his eyes and pumps his arm in quick, frantic strokes, it's the skin that he sees. He imagines those cracked lips parting, sighing.

Eli comes, gasping. He savours those meagre seconds, relishing the way his mind is wiped blank, the way he doesn't need to think about anything at all.

The guilt and the shame settle in quickly. Eli turns on the tap and sits kneeling in the tub, arms cradling air, chin lowered to his chest. As the tub fills, Eli thinks back to Michael's disgusted expression, hollow cheeks turning into the fluorescent light. Something bitter rises out of the pit of Eli's stomach and shrivels up his innards.

He scrubs himself quickly. He runs a bar of soap through his short hair and rinses off the foamy residue by dipping his head under the running water. He doesn't touch the conditioner.

Michael probably has all kinds of wires and drips hanging off of him by now. Would the hospital lend him some real clothes, or will they release him into the city half naked?

Arousal is stirring through Eli again, making its way down his spine. Eli looks down at his dick in annoyance. It's half-hard.

Eli towels himself off as he heads into his bedroom, being careful to avoid his lower body. He pulls on a pair of old briefs and fall into bed.

Sleep never comes easy to him, but today everything fades to black before his head even hits the pillow.

There's a wolf in the shadows, growling. Its fangs glisten with blood and its amber eyes are glowing, lingering on Eli. It walks forward into the light. Its neck is torn, and bloody muscle dangle off the bones. Everything is deafeningly silent. The wolf's head wobbles, then falls sideways, attached to the body only by a red matted strip of fur. It starts forward. Eli tries to run, but his legs are too heavy for him to lift. The dangling head swings like a pendulum as the wolf leaps. Eli is rooted to the spot in terror. The wolf's tongue lolls out, its eyes turn milky, and its fur stands up in spikes. The momentum snaps the last filament of skin and the head flies through the hair, spinning, throwing splotches of scarlet into the air. Eli feels the wet blood on his face, burning him like acid. The head spins towards him. "Pervert," it says in Michael's voice. "Pervert." The wolf's jaws detach and open like a python's.

Eli sits up in bed. The sheets stick to his skin, damp from sweat. It feels like there is something hard lodged in his throat. Eli lowers his face into his shaking hands and peeks through his fingers.

It's dark outside. In March, dark can mean ten in the evening or four in the morning. Eli doesn't check the time. The growling of his stomach is the only thing he cares about at this point.

There's no food in the apartment. With a reluctant sigh, he pulls on a pair of faded jeans. He layers three sweaters on top of each other, leaving his blood-stained jacket in the sink. The 7-Eleven is Eli's go-to place. He plans to pick up some hot dogs, and maybe the moonshine he neglected earlier too. He has a feeling he'll need it.

Ducking his head as he steps out into the street, Eli hurries down the sidewalk, almost tripping over a bum who is sitting on the grimy ground with vacant eyes and his flaccid dick in his hand, high as a kite. Moondust, Vic's voice echoes. Eli cringes and shakes his head.

Night makes the cold colder. Eli sticks his hands deep in his sweater pockets.

Just as he crosses the intersection, Eli feels a chill at the base of his neck. He looks around. The streets are empty. The hobos deserted their usual posts to get out of the cold. Eli can see the glowing lights of the 7-Eleven. He quickens his pace. Then he feels it again. Eli shivers and stops.

Short, squat buildings line the dirty side walk. The stoplights a block back changes from red to green. The streetlights overhead glow timidly, as if the darkness is so overwhelming that it has swallowed their shine.

Eli narrow his eyes, peering into the shadows cast by a run-down real estate office a little ways back. Something shifts and a brief spot of light glints off something small and metal. A figure walks slowly onto the sidewalk.

Michael.

He is wearing a long jacket. It's dirty green, furry around the collar, and too big for him. He's wearing the same black pants Eli first saw him in. And his feet are bare.

Eli stares at him for a minute. His brain sputters to a stop, and then starts again. Maybe it's a mirage? Maybe he's hallucinating. Maybe it's a dream.

"Hey." The voice spooks Eli. The throaty rumble is deep and solid. Eli feels like he just walked into a wall.

Eli glances at Michael's feet. Did he follow Eli home from the hospital? Eli turns slightly, hesitates, and then continues his way towards the 7-Eleven, as if Michael is invisible, as if the neglected "Hey" isn't still ringing in his ears. Maybe they discharged him early. Did he come to find Eli? How did he know Eli lives here? It's probably just a coincidence, Eli tells himself. Unfortunately, he doesn't believe in coincidences.

When he comes out of the store, food in hand, he finds Michael waiting for him.

Eli stops. They just stand there looking at each other. Michael's eyes are glowing in the dark. Eli drops his gaze first.

Eli tries to think of something to say, just to break the silence. It's a first for him. He's never been adverse to silence before. "You're supposed to be at the hospital," he mutters finally.

Michael shrugs. "I told the doctors to fuck off."

Eli doesn't know what to make of that. "Are you high?"

Michael just looks at him, with a shit-eating smirk slowly creeping onto his face. He shrugs again.

Eli takes a step forward, then changes his mind, and turns to cross the street – just to avoid having to share a sidewalk with Michael.

"No," Michael answers belatedly. The sound echoes down the empty street. "I'm not high."

Eli pauses. He almost turns. It takes every ounce of disciple he possesses to keep himself looking forward. He speed-walks back to his apartment, not glancing back, not even once. But he can feel, and hear, Michael following him. Eli stops at the mouth of his alley, and turns to face him.

Michael is closer than Eli thought. He's very light on his feet.

"How did you find me?" Eli asks quietly.

Michael grins easily, but his eyes are hard. "I'm supposed to be one of you, remember?" He pulls Eli's badge out of his pocket and raises it to the light. "I tracked you," he stage-whispers.

Hunters don't do any tracking. But Eli doesn't correct Michael. He reaches out one hand, thinking that Michael will toss the badge back to him. Instead , Michael takes two long strides forward, and slaps the badge into Eli's upturned palm. His cold fingers wrap around Eli's hand.

On pure reflex, Eli jerks his arm back, but Michael wouldn't let go.

A minute passes, then another.

Eli scrambles to figure out what he's supposed to do. What do normal people do in a situation like this?

Michael's grey eyes find his, and Eli feel like he's been captured. Unable to move.

It's the faint grating sound of claws on ice that breaks the spell. Eli spins around and barely manages to raise his free arm to protect his face before a massive, furred torso crashes into him.

Werewolf.

Time slows down. Eli reaches out. He closes his fingers around the wolf's hind leg. It's all damp fur and hard bones. Eli can almost hear the ticking of the seconds, sounding like thunder claps in his mind. Tick. Tock. He uses the momentum of his fall to fling the wolf down the street. He feels his right shoulder giving way and searing pain spiking down his arm.

The wolf lands head-first, skids, and then somersaults. As it gets shakily back onto its feet, Eli finds himself reaching towards the back of his jeans. He panics after finding nothing there. And then he remembers that he left all of his guns in his apartment. 

The wolf growls him, taking a small step forward. The wolf watches his movements with glowing eyes. Eli puts on his best pokerface and jerks his right arm, as if he's pulling his Magnum out of the back of his jeans. The wolf hunches down, like it's about to pounce. Eli slips his wallet out of his back pocket and brings his arm around quickly, raising his other hand to meet it, clasping his fingers around the cheap leather like he's holding a gun.

If the wolf a few more steps forward it would be able to call Eli's bluff. But the darkness is a friend tonight. Lucky that werewolves don't have the same night vision as real wolves.

The wolf yelps and turns away, dashing down the street. Eli falls back on his butt, heart racing.

His injured shoulder pulses, sending throbbing pain across his back and down his left arm. He hopes it's only a pulled muscle and not a dislocated joint, but he just swung a hundred-eighty-pound werewolf like a discus and threw it twenty feet down the street. It's a surprise his arm is still attached to his body. Maybe he'll go to the hospital tomorrow. He's had enough of that place today.

Michael is on the ground, groaning. It's only when Eli sees the gashes on the front of Michael oversized jacket does he realize who the intended victim of the werewolf's attack was. Eli's Hunter training kicks in. He leaves the hotdogs on the ground, forgotten, and kneels next to Michael.

He tears open Michael's jacket. Michael isn't wearing a shirt underneath. His bony chest has four long slash wounds across it. Dark blood is dripping down into his waistband.

Eli strips off his outermost sweater and wraps it around Michael's body. He dabs off the blood. Luckily, the cuts aren't deep.

Eli drops his badge on the ground next to Michael's head. "Go back to the hospital."

"Oh, yeah, sure. I'll explain to them how I got sliced up if you show them the werewolf that did it," he says shrewdly.

Eli blinks.

"That'll look good, won't it?" Michael continues. "That's probably the first werewolf seen inside a city. It hacks somebody up right outside a Hunter's apartment, and it got away. Would they even give you a severance pay before they fire your ass?"

Eli scowls. He puts his badge back into pocket and picks up his hot dogs. "They sell bandages." He points towards the 7-Eleven. "Dollar store down the street sells shoes." He turns and hastens towards his apartment. There's a grunt as Michael gets back up, and then he's following Eli again, bare feet slapping against the pavement.

"Go away," Eli snarls over his shoulder as he heads up the stairs.

Eli lets himself into his apartment and locks the door firmly behind him. He winces as his shoulder throbs. He leaves the hot dogs on the kitchen table and walks towards the window, feeling his way in the dark.

The kitchen window is two square sliding pieces of thick glass, perched over a strip of the fire escape that runs up the front side of the old building. The newlyweds on the floor above use the metal landing like a mini balcony. The people below turned it into a makeshift greenhouse. Eli never goes out there.

He slides the window open for the first time ever and peers down. Michael is standing in the middle of the street, arms crossed, staring right back up at him. Eli slams the window shut and throws the hotdogs in the microwave. He forgot to buy moonshine, again.

Eli inhales his dinner, washing it down with bottled water. He leaves his jeans in the middle of the bathroom and crawls back into bed.

An hour later, he's still awake. His shoulder is sending intermittent waves of agony through his body, but Eli has slept through worse than that. He had broken his arm once, and managed to ignore the pain for a week. It's not the pain that's keeping him up.

Eli sits up with a huff, cradling his left arm in his right. He walks back to the kitchen, pressing his nose up against the window. The street is empty. Eli slides open the glass pane and leans out, scanning up and down the street. Michael is nowhere to be found. Satisfied, Eli shuts the window and goes back to bed.

He's back in the club, and the whole place smells like pot and spilled vodka. There are hardly any lights, just bodies bumping bodies in the dark. Eli prefers it this way. He steers clear of the dance floor. He ain't here for the dancing. "Hey, you." White hair, dark eyes. "What's your name?"

Then he's kneeling on the bathroom floor. There's something rubbing against his side. Eli looks. It's the head of a werewolf, its eyes bloodshot, staring, its tongue is hanging out, and the neck is missing, ripped up into shreds.

"Hey." There's chocolate everywhere. Eli feels fire, warm and crackling licking between his legs. He arches, moaning. Pleasure ripples up his body. He shudders and comes, a silent scream lodged deep in his throat.

Eli's eyes snap open. The bedroom is dark. He's covered in sweat.

Eli kicks his covers away, and feels the muscles of his inner thigh throbbing. He groans and runs his hand over his groin. There's a warm, sticky patch on the front part of his underwear. Eli stares down at his legs, stunned for a minute, then he strips off his briefs and flops over onto the cool side of the bed. The dream is unusually vivid in his mind, still etched in his memory.

He closes his eyes, trying to conjure the feeling the chocolaty voice stirred up inside him.

 _Thump_.

Eli bolts upright, head tilted, eyes wide.

_Scriiitch._

It's coming from the kitchen. Eli reaches under the bed for his Browning BDM. His right shoulder protests against the movement. A jolt of pain makes his eyes water. Eli clenches his teeth. He pulls on his pajama pants before slipping out of his room, the gun cradled in his left hand.

The mini fridge is wide open, throwing the kitchen into a blue tint. A half-empty jar of salsa is open on the kitchen table, and Michael is sitting on the bar stool, shirtless and munching on a cracker. 

He eyes the gun and swallows. He juts his chin at the cracker box, turned over on its side on the table. "You're out of food," he says quietly.


	3. Blue Moon

__

Eli lowers his gun.

Michael smiles a little. "Oh, and, I think I broke your window."

Eli sticks the Browning in his waistband and points to the door. "Get out."

Michael doesn't react. Eli resists the urge to throw something at him. Eli crosses the room in two strides. He grabs Michael's arm, pulling him off his seat. The bar stool falls over, landing loudly. Michael's cool, dry skin is electrifying to Eli's touch.

Eli lets go like he got burned.

"Just..." he stammers and points to the door again," leave."

Michael is a head taller than him, and it makes Eli uncomfortable. As if he can read Eli's mind, Michael takes a step closer, making Eli all the more aware of his height. "Relax," Michael says, getting cockier by the second. "I just need some food. Haven't eaten all day."

Eli runs his left hand down his side, looking for some cash that he can throw at Michael to make him go away. Anything, he'd do anything just so he doesn't have to see that skin again. Eli forgets that he's wearing his pajamas.

"I like your pants." Michael sticks a finger into Eli's waistband and pulls. Eli looks down, sees the yellow ducks and immediately flushes pink. Michael grins and lets go. The elastic snaps back against Eli's skin. His handgun slips and clatters to the ground.

Michael turns away to dip his finger in the salsa. Eli takes advantage of the moment to duck back into his room. He closes the door behind him and leans against it, wide eyed and heart hammering. He idly wonders if he should have offered Michael a drink. That's what normal people do when someone comes over, isn't it?

Except Michael isn't a guest. He broke into Eli's apartment. That's a felony. How would normal people react in a situation like this? Eli looks down at his pants. Surely a normal person wouldn't be aroused.

Eli ultimately decides to go with his first plan. He digs through the clothes discarded around his bed for money, and finds a twenty tucked into the back pocket of the jeans he wore this morning. He opens his bedroom door cautiously. Michael is leaning out the window, looking up at something.

"Here," Eli holds the bill between two fingers, wary that Michael will grab his hand again. Michael eases himself back in the room and gives Eli a lazy smile.

"Thanks." He takes the money and sticks it in his pants pocket.

Eli opens his mouth then closes it. Michael gives him an encouraging look. Eli tries again. "Can you go now?"

Michael smirks. He reaches behind him and pulls out something white, dangling it from his fingers. "Is this yours?"

It's Eli's underwear. He had taken it off when he got home from the hospital, and left it on the kitchen floor when he made a beeline to the bath tub. "No," Eli says quickly, before he can stop himself. He realizes how stupid he sounds, lying to Michael's face. Of course they're his. It's his apartment, whose else could they be?

Michael steps forward and stuffs the briefs down the front of Eli's pajama bottoms. Eli is too surprised to react. 

Eli's been living alone for too long. He has sex on the brain. He remembers the last time someone put something down the front of his pants. He was sloshed, standing alone along a wall at the club. A man walked up and teasingly stuck a dollar bill into the front of his jeans. He let that man lead him out into the side street, in the shadows where the streetlamps couldn't see.

Eli watches Michael with wide eyes, scared to move, scared to breathe, even. Michael holds his gaze and lowers his hands to the opening of his own pants. _Ziiip_. Eli closes his eyes. He hears the pants falling to the ground.

If Michael touches him now, he wouldn't say no. He's had sex with plenty of strange men before, in fact, he's only ever had sex with nameless men, full of quick and fevered thrusts, impassioned by booze and bottled-up lust.

Eli waits for a touch, a hand running up the side of his arm, or a push at the small of his back...but it doesn't come.

The bathroom door slams.

Eli opens his eyes.

The tap squeaks and Eli hears running water. He looks around. Is Michael taking a bath in his tub?

Eli almost trips over Michael's pants. He feels like his face is on fire. Of course Michael only wanted a bath. He's been rolling around on the dirty ground for most of the morning. Eli cannot believe he convinced himself that Michael wanted to have sex with him. He shakes himself.

Eli hovers in front of the bathroom door, unsure of what to do. He settles on knocking. It feels strange to be knocking on the door of his own bathroom. As a matter of fact, since this morning–since he spotted Michael running for his life–Eli has been dragged out of his comfort zone into unknown places. And now he feels stranded.

He wants to go back.

Eli knocks again, louder. 

"Come in," Michael answers cheerfully. 

Eli touches the cold of the doorknob, and pauses. Michael is naked in the tub right now. The image Eli's mind comes up with is a little too much for him to handle. He takes his hand off the doorknob in a hurry.

The sound of gurgling water comes from behind the door. "Hey," Michael calls.

It takes Eli a minute to think of the appropriate response. "Yeah?"

"Do you have a towel I can borrow?"

Eli nods, and then remembers Michael can't see him. "Hold on," he says, and stumbles off into his bedroom. The strangeness of the whole situation is not lost on him. But, somehow, searching his drawers for a clean towel makes him feel less awkward than standing outside the bathroom like an idiot.

"It's outside the door." Eli drops a pair of sweatpants and a clean t-shirt on top of the towel. He won't have Michael wandering around his apartment naked.

Eli returns to his room and closes the door. He sits on his bed and wonders if he stays in here long enough that maybe Michael will just get what he needs and leave. Maybe when he opens the door again Michael will be gone. He idly massages his sore shoulder.

The bathroom door slams. _Thump, thump, thump_. _Bang_. Footsteps. The bar stool drags against cheap linoleum. Cabinets open and close. Something clatters to the ground.

Eli closes his eyes and lowers his head into his folded arms. The prospect of having someone–anyone–inside his apartment for this long is new and frightening for him. Leave already. Go away. Take your stunning eyes and your mesmerizing skin and get out.

When everything is quiet again, Eli doesn't get his hope up. He didn't hear the old lock on his front door clink. What is Michael up to now?

Eli smells bacon. He raises his nose to the air to make sure. Yep, that's definitely bacon.

He opens the door cautiously. The kitchen is warm, and the smell of the meat is only amplified by the sound of oil sputtering and sizzling. Michael is dressed and standing with his back to Eli. He has found a saucepan–rather, _the_ saucepan, being the only cooking utensil Eli owns–and has it plopped onto the small, portable kerosene stove.

Eli spares a second to be embarrassed about the sparseness of his apartment, before he spots the packet of bacon on the round table. "Where'd you get that?"

Michael turns to give him a brilliant smile. "Your neighbours upstairs. They're nice people."

Eli looks over at the kitchen window. It's half open and the blinds are askew. "You talked to them?"

"No, but I can tell from the photos they have hanging around," Michael replies unconcernedly. "They're nice people." He picks up the bacon with his fingertips and drops them into a bowl that Eli has never seen before. Michael probably "borrowed" that from the upstairs couple too. He dumps the rest of the bacon from the package into the pan and settles himself on the stool with the bowl. He eats the bacon with his bare hands.

The bacon in the pan crackles as it cooks. Michael looks up and sees Eli watching him. He extends the bowl. "Want some?"

Eli watches the oil drip down Michael's cracked lips. He shakes his head.

He lingers for a minute, and then pulls out a bottle of water from under the sink. He drops it on the table. Michael looks up at him, expression unreadable, then pops open the cap and takes a long drink.

Eli finds a fork and separates the pieces of bacon in the saucepan, just to have something to do. There isn't enough space to lay out the bacon, so Eli folds them and flips them, watching the oil bubble.

"Is it done yet?" Michael's voice is so close to Eli's ear that he jumps, dropping the fork. Michael grabs Eli's shoulder. "Hey! Relax."

Eli's entire right arm spasms. He gasps in pain, shuddering. Michael pulls Eli's shirt collar down around his shoulder. He makes a sound deep in his throat. "You dislocated your shoulder."

Eli swears. Michael hums something under his breath and grimaces. "Alright, hold on." He grabs hold of Eli and–

Pain. Pain. Pain. Bright jarring flashes of light blind Eli. He opens his mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.

Everything goes black.

Eli is vaguely aware that he's lying on his kitchen floor. He can see the window from where he is. The sky outside is brightening. He groans. There's a pillow under his right arm. His shoulder is killing him. What the hell did Michael do? Everything is blurry, dotted black. He squeezes his eyes shut and open them again. The room goes hazy, like the picture is distorted or something, and then his vision slowly clears.

Michael is kneeling next to Eli. He holds something out in his hand. "Take this. It'll make the pain go away for a bit."

Eli doesn't even look at him. He can hardly trust the drugs the doctors prescribe; he's not eating anything Michael has to offer. "Leave me alone"

"I realigned your shoulder." Michael huffs. "Anyone else would say 'thank you'."

Eli closes his eyes.

Michael rummages around for a bit before kneeling down again. "Drink some water at least." He holds the bottle to Eli's lips and lifts Eli's head with his other hand.

Eli takes a deep gulp. It's only after he swallows that he realizes the water tastes off. It's bitter.

"What did you–?" Eli sputters.

The last thing he sees is Michael's lips twitching upwards. Then Eli's brain explodes.

__


End file.
